“Hurt me!”
The words were out before I had even consciously processed them. I didn’t mean to say them. He was inside me, fucking my ass, and interrogating me at the same time. “Is this what you fantasize about? Is this what you want?” Each question punctuated by a hard thrust that made me cry out..I was mostly nonverbal, too turned on to talk back, to answer.
“Tell me what you like about this!” It wasn’t a question, it was a demand. My response wasn’t coherent, but I couldn’t turn my mouth off.
“That..you use me! Fuck me, fuck my ass, even when I don’t want you to…even though I don’t want you to..take your pleasure..even though it hurts..”
And then I said it, as he was fucking me harder, both hurting me and creating ripples of intense pleasure as he slammed his cock in and out…”Hurt me!”
And then my brain shut off. He came, but my brain was stuck.
If I’d asked him to hurt me before, I didn’t remember it. Asked him to do painful but erotic things? Sure. Given him the cane, asked him to mark me?
Yes. But in my head, I could justify that. I didn’t want the pain, I wanted the marks. I wanted the situation.
Weeks ago, on facebook, I posted some silly meme about no rainbow without rain and no happiness without pain – someone offered an alternative saying, no flowers without shit. I had responded at the time, joking since obviously my sexual preferences are private and not a common topic of discussion, that I preferred pain and rainbows and added “Maybe I’m just a masochist.”
Of course when he got home, he was amused. Amused enough to mention it. And it caught be off guard. I guess, in my head, in my heart, I had never really thought of myself as a masochist. Submissive. I like kinky stuff.
But a masochist? For some reason, that I can’t explain, I shied away from that term. Masochism seemed extreme. I wasn’t that kinky. Was I? I was quiet, withdrawn, and he teased me, prodded me to talk as we went through our day. We were out shopping, in the car on the way home as we talked about.
“Do you…think of me…like that?” The question was halting, unsure, more worthy of the teenager I’ve grown out of being than the confident 28 year old I (usually think) I’ve matured into.
“Sure.” His answer was so sure, so nonchalant, I was quiet for a moment.
“Well do you think of yourself as a sadist?” I challenged. I expected the answer to be no – he usually tells me he just does what’s fun.
“Yeah.”
And the conversation dropped from there, though there’d be days where he’d tell me he was feeling sadistic, and my tits would usually end up well marked.
But somehow, during that moment of sex, I couldn’t hide from myself. I could justify it. I wanted him to get off despite hurting me. Which is true. Or I could say I wanted him to enjoy his sadistic streak, to please him by taking the pain of his cock. Also true.
But not the truth. The truth is, I wanted the pain in its own right, too.
And isn’t that interesting?
